Just Words
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Whether Dean can't talk or he can't shut up, it's never just words.


_Previously appeared in _Road Trip With My Brother 7 _(2008), from Agent With Style_  
_Inspired in part by gaelicspirit_

**Just Words**  
K Hanna Korossy

_He was talking. He was always talking. _

_"Anyway, I see her there leaning across the pool table, and her top's cut so low, I don't even have to use my imagination. She looks at me with these incredible blue-green eyes, but I don't really notice those just yet because I'm too busy staring at her—"_

_There was a sharp scent overlying the words, and occasionally it distracted him from the flow. His senses were muddled, overlapping, cutting in and out. Sometimes it was the smell. Sometimes it was the words, or the steady beeping in the background. Sometimes it was the feeling of something rubbing the back of his hand, gentle, mesmerizing strokes up and down. A mix of good and bad, comfort and fear. But he always seemed to end up back on the words._

_"So she tells me she's ready to go and asks me if I'm coming and, dude, I almost choked on my beer. Next thing I know, we're in the car and she—"_

_Always the words. They never stopped. _

_Well, mostly._

_Time grew muddled, too, and he tumbled into the memory of silence._

00000_  
_

They say if you go through something enough times, you get used to it. He would never get used to Dean disappearing, no matter how friggin' regularly it seemed to happen.

This time Sam knew with awful clarity what had taken his brother, or rather who, and it actually didn't help nearly as much as he'd have hoped. They'd dealt a severe blow to the cult they were looking into when they found enough evidence of human sacrifices to have the leaders arrested, but apparently the headless snake was still dangerous, too. Dean had been gone for four days, and the sacrificial victims had always been killed the night they were taken.

For once, Sam hoped with all his being that he was wrong.

And he was. Sort of.

He'd been on his way out the door to go talk to a former cult member, try to glean some little information about where Dean might have been taken and what would have been done to him, although Sam had seen the pictures. Oh, God, the pictures. The first night, he'd thrown up every time he'd thought about the vivisected bodies. He'd grown a lot more hard and weary and desperate since then.

And then just outside the door, he'd caught sight of…an arm? Flung out behind the back wheel of Dean's beloved car.

Sam's few cautious steps quickly turned into a skidding run. And then he was kneeling beside Dean's naked and still body. The panic and relief hurt so bad, it nearly choked him.

"Dean!" His sharp yip didn't elicit any response, nor did the jacket he quickly shucked to lay over his brother, more for comfort than modesty, although both mattered. Seeing Dean like this…no one should see his brother like this.

Dean's chest rose and fell as he lay on his side, his breath a whisper against Sam's cradling hand, his eyes slitted. But he wasn't quite conscious, and there was no other movement. The one arm that was swollen at the joints and distorted was tucked against his middle, the other wrist, purple and glossy, circlets of abraded flesh telling familiar stories about restraint and mistreatment, stretched out in front of him. His body was curiously untouched as far as Sam could see, but the arms, the ankles—one also stretched-tight skin over edematous muscle, spoke of frantic attempts to escape. Dean was rarely frantic, and usually only when Sam was involved.

He shuddered, one hand already dialing 911, the other stroking Dean's cold and stubbled cheek. Sam's head whipped around as he called for help, belatedly looking for witnesses or perpetrators, but there was no one in the early morning parking lot. Help secured, Sam dropped the phone and leaned over Dean again.

"Dean, can you hear me? You're safe. You're with me now. We're gonna get you some help, all right? You're safe, it's done."

The dull slivers of green never blinked, never stirred. Dean wasn't completely out, but he wasn't _there_, either. The skin under Sam's fingers was chilly but not clammy, and he wondered flinchingly how long Dean had lain out there.

And what had happened to the fierce and _loud _big brother he knew. Why a few non-lethal injuries left him sprawled and unfighting and looking so beaten.

Sam curled even more over Dean, like it was just rain or prying eyes he was protecting him from, his other hand cupping his brother's jaw. He was scared to move him at all, no flowing blood to stop, no other injury he could help at that moment, just waiting for the sound of the siren and staring into those half-lidded eyes.

"Hey, hey. I'm here, Dean, I'm here. It's gonna be okay, I promise. I'll fix this. Just stay with me, all right? _Please_."

But there was only unresponsive silence from his brother until they rolled him away at the hospital.

00000

_"…wish we'd thought of flare guns when we were hunting that bastard. I had lighter fluid and Dad had flares and some molotovs, but you know how fast wendigos move. We got lucky with the one you and me and Dad took down in Wisconsin—we cornered that sucker. This one wasn't so easy…"_

_The words flowed on, like the water he was bobbing on. _

_Actually, more like some kind of tether. Sometimes silence fell, if briefly, and he could feel himself start to drift, even fall. It was frightening and appealing at once, that feeling of just floating away. But then the monologue started up again, like a line thrown in desperation after him, and it snagged and pulled and held him fast. He wished sometimes he could respond, wished it would shut up other times—although, not really—but it just kept going._

_"…so Dad and I manage to get this thing between us—it's not like we're worried about crossfire, throwing a molotov—but it keeps moving so fast, all I'm seeing is this friggin' blur and a really ticked-off Dad…"_

Don't stop._ He was falling back into sleep and dreams and remembrances, but he needed to know there would be something to come back to._

_He was starting to hate silence._

00000

Dean slept for two days after he'd turned up in the parking lot. The doctor had said that was normal: Sam's brother was exhausted, dehydrated, hurt. His elbow had been dislocated, his shoulder wrenched, ankle sprained and wrist broken. No…_assault_, which some part of Sam had been terrified of, and he didn't think about that one any further. But it was the revelation about the drugs that made his heart beat with panic and rage, the doctor having showed him the crooked row of puncture marks hidden in the bend of the bloated elbow. An anti-psychotic medication, the blood tests had showed, which perversely caused psychosis in the healthy. It was already almost out of Dean's system, but who knew what Hell it had tossed him into those missing days?

Although, looking at his wrists and ankles, Sam knew.

He was reading, or trying to, when he felt the change. Dean shifted from sleep to consciousness as silently and quickly as if just waking up from a good night's sleep. Eyes that were more murky brown than green stared up at the ceiling.

Sam dropped Dad's journal and leaned forward, face cracking into an almost foreign smile. "Hey, Dean."

The eyes flickered sideways to him, then slid away, unreacting.

Sam slipped his fingers into his brother's loose, cold grasp, chafing the skin. "Hey. You awake?"

Dean's throat bobbed, then he nodded, a spare fraction of movement.

Sam's hand tightened its grip. "You're safe, you're in the hospital. You, uh, remember what happened?"

Dean's gaze rolled his way again, stared at him a few seconds longer this time.

Yeah. He remembered.

Sam was the one swallowing this time. "We'll figure it out, Dean. Whatever happened to you, we'll deal with it, all right?" It was his big brother's promise, and it sounded weak and uncertain coming from him.

Dean turned away.

When the doctor arrived, Sam answered his questions for Dean, reading the important details in his brother's still eyes and face, not probing for the rest, not yet. The doctor didn't like Dean not talking any more than Sam did, but there was no other reason to keep him there longer, and Dean struggling to sit up and get out of bed made his wishes clear. Five hours and not a single word later, Dean was dozing in the front seat of the Impala as Sam drove _away_. He stopped flooring the gas when they reached the state line.

There would be no motels this time. Dean wasn't talking, and as far as Sam was concerned, that meant his brother had given up the right to tender an opinion on the matter. Sam drove until he found a bed & breakfast that looked comfortable and quiet, paid for two days from Dean's hidden cash store, then eased his unresisting, flagging brother inside. Dean's long exhale as he hit the feather bed had been his only reaction, and he was asleep before Sam finished pulling his shoes off and tucking him in. He sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, watching his brother sleep and trying not to feel like Dean was still missing.

The next morning, even when his eyes looked less sallow and glazed, and he ate all the food Sam collected from the buffet for him, Dean still wasn't talking.

00000

_"I miss Dad." _

_If he could have strained to hear the suddenly quieter words, he would have. _

_"I know you keep pushing me to talk about it, but there's nothing to say, really. It kills me that…that he's gone because of me, and nothing's gonna change that. But mostly, God, I just miss him." _

_He still wasn't sure what had happened to him—something about a nixie?—but it had left him helpless, barely there. He tried to open his mouth, his eyes, to squeeze back against the suddenly crushing grip on his hand, but he could only lie there and listen. _

_An unsteady laugh. "He always was stubborn—well, you know that. Not like you two never butted heads. He could beat anything. I guess I always figured he'd beat Death, too." _

_The beeping became a little faster. The soft words didn't falter. _

_"You know, I think we spent more time in Cali the three years you were gone than all the rest of the time before that. Any hint of a job that would take us past Stanford, Dad jumped on it, didn't matter how thin it was. He was proud, and he wasn't gonna let it show how much he missed you, but he was about as subtle as you are. He was just scared for us. I think he got tired of being so scared."_

_Warmth crept up his chest as his blankets were tugged higher, then his hair was ruffled. Rough fingers slid through his bangs down to the nape of his neck to squeeze gently. Unfiltered love. _

_"C'mon, enough with the whole _Brian's Song_ act. I'm starting to miss you, too, freak." _

_ And, perversely, that was what actually lodged a lump in his throat. _

_The silence scared him, but the words…they ached a whole different way. _

00000

They stayed at the B&B for the two days, then two more, until Sam got tired of the owners' questions about his invisible roommate and Dean started to get restless. It hadn't even occurred to Sam to look for another hunt, though, so he packed up the two of them and drove until the tension went out of Dean's shoulders, then checked into a motel that was more their speed. The feather bed and good food had filled Dean's face out a little and returned some of its color, but he was back in his element now in polyester and smoke-scented sheets, and it showed in his ease.

Even if he still hadn't said a word.

"You want to go out and get some lunch? I think I saw a diner a few miles up the road."

Dean clicked to another channel and shook his head.

Sam stopped at the foot of his bed, eyeing him. Dean's ankle was still wrapped, his wrist in a cast, but otherwise he was healing up and looking almost normal. Until you saw his eyes and didn't hear his voice. "Okay, I'll bring you back something."

Shrug. _Click._

"I know, I know, tofu wrap and a veggie shake."

_Click. _Dean's mouth didn't even twitch.

Sam's nose wrinkled, and his tone dropped. "Dean…you know you could talk to me, right? I mean, nobody else would have to know and it wouldn't change anything, I swear, but it might—"

Dean's glare cut him off as sharply as any retort.

Sam nodded slowly. "All right. I just wanted you to know." He'd thought about calling their dad a hundred times, only to be reminded anew each time that they were on their own now. In nearly a whisper and without any real thought, Sam added, "I'm worried about you, man."

Dean fidgeted, the look he cast Sam as close to helpless as his brother came. The same look that had accompanied the rare quiet revelations of Dean's deeper feelings those last few months, a tacit plea for understanding that _this is all I've got left. _

Sam nodded again, more gently this time. He hadn't pushed, not once, since Dean had come back, just supported and worried in his own silence, and he wasn't about to start now. "Burgers," he said softly. "And a milkshake."

Dean's eyes softened in gratitude. Sam flipped him a smile he actually meant, and left.

There was a drugstore next to the diner in the little strip of storefronts. Sam stared at it as he went inside the diner, put the order in to go, then wandered outside to look at the building again. _Offering_ wasn't _pushing_, right? Sam squared his shoulders and went inside, returning with a slim bag to pick up their food.

They ate to the accompaniment of _I Love Lucy_ and _The Honeymooners_. Dean swiped a few of Sam's fries after finishing his own, and returned his brother's heatless glower with a look of complete innocence. Sam squirted a packet of mustard at him, and earned a snort if not a laugh. He'd have to check his shoes and his sheets that night to make sure Dean didn't return the favor, but half hoped he would. Things were returning to normal even in the silence, and that was something, too.

He waited until Dean was sucking on the last of the milkshake before pulling out the drugstore bag. The spiral-bound notebook landed next to Dean's knee, and he gave it, then Sam, a puzzled look.

"I just thought…maybe it would be easier if you wrote it down," Sam said, suddenly quiet.

Dean's look smoothed out into a blankness Sam also knew well. It was retreat, that middle ground between listening to Sam and getting mad at him. It was the easy way out, and Sam bristled.

"Don't give me that," he shot back, suddenly angry. "Dean, I'm not stupid, all right? I know you went through Hell and you don't want to talk about it and I get that, I really do. But you're not stupid, either—_this _is not better. You're always telling me to talk about things, get it out? Well, dude, stop being a hypocrite and take your own advice."

Dean blinked at him, then eloquently raised one eyebrow.

For all Dean's lack of verbosity, Sam hadn't found their communication impaired in the least bit. He made a frustrated sound and bounced up off the bed. "Whatever. I'm going to the library. It's louder there." He strode to the door and stopped. Bowed his head. "I can't lose you, too, Dean," he said roughly.

He walked out without looking back.

Six hours later when he returned, meatloaf sandwiches clutched in a bag as a rib-sticking apology, he found Dean pressed up against the headboard of his bed, writing. From where he was in the notebook, it looked like he'd been writing since Sam had left. His eyes, opaque and bright, made it up to about Sam's chin before falling back to the notebook.

Sam was the one to flick on the TV this time, turning it low and not really following what was playing.

Dean was still writing when Sam finally gave up and went to bed, and when he woke up around two to take a leak. Each time, a half-defiant, half-embarrassed set of the jaw dared Sam to say something, and he didn't besides a soft "good-night."

In the morning, Dean was sprawled across the bed in exhausted sleep. The creased and well-used notebook lay beside him, a chewed pen tucked into its spirals.

Sam didn't touch it, just threw a blanket over his brother with a small smile and went for coffee.

00000

_"…dude, trying to sew up a clawmark on your shoulder blade using a mirror? Not fun. I'm surprised it doesn't look like Frankenstein." _

_The story ended. Then, as if he couldn't keep up the bravado anymore, Dean's voice fell. _

_"That wasn't the worst part, though, not really. Hunting solo's just not the same, even when it all goes down sweet. I just…I missed you, you long-haired geek." _

_There was a pause. Stories about hunts and conversations and years without Sam had grown increasingly shorter and more raw, always ending up here: Dean's heart on a platter. Because the shame of revealing all was bearable in the dark, and there was no risk of rejection when there was no one awake to hear._

_"It was hard, after you left, you know? Sometimes I think you and hunting were the only things Dad and I ever talked about, and once you were gone…" A clearing of the throat. "Some ways, I lost Dad when you left, too."_

_His tangled senses couldn't figure out if it was the words or Dean's hand that caressed his skin: his jawline, the inside of his wrist, his temple. _

_"I don't want to do this without you, man. I can't. You're all I've got left." _

_There was a soft, damp pressure on his forearm, and the voice got muffled. _

_"I don't know what to do, Sammy." _

_That made two of them, and apparently he wasn't completely numb because his heart hurt._

00000

Dean was up by the time Sam got back with coffee and breakfast. There was new tension in the air between them, but Sam had expected as much. He gave Dean an uncomplicated smile.

"It's nice outside, man. Thought maybe we could go for a ride later." Roll the windows down, crank the music up: it was Dean's way of feeling alive, and Sam wanted to feel it with him.

Dean shrugged, more acquiescence than ambivalence, and gulped his coffee as he ran a hand through his hair. It was getting longer.

"There's a barbershop in town, too," Sam added, and nodded at the dark blond spikes when Dean frowned at him. "Unless you're going for my look."

He dodged Dean's pillow with a laugh, then grew serious as his eyes fell on the notebook again.

"I could read that. You know, if you want me to." _He _didn't want to, not sure he was ready to hear any more than Dean was ready to talk, but there wasn't much he wouldn't do to help his brother.

Dean's eyes narrowed and he turned the TV on.

Right. Sam sighed softly, and pulled out the laptop.

At the end of whatever cartoon had been on, Dean rose. Sam didn't look up but followed him by ear as his brother rooted for clean clothes, then a bag for his cast so it wouldn't get wet when he showered. Sam's attention finally slid away from the limping movements and concentrated on the screen in front of him, not even really noting the pause in Dean's actions.

He jumped when the notebook landed smack on the keyboard. Sam's head shot up, to the sight of Dean's back disappearing into the bathroom.

Huh.

Sam stared at the dog-eared cover, rubbing a thumb against the shiny metal spiral. Then he rose in one motion and, notebook clutched in hand, went outside.

There was a picnic table across the parking lot, perched under a tree that was just starting to bud. Sam zipped up his hoodie and headed for it, settling on the end of one bench. Another moment of staring at the cover, trying to prepare himself for what was inside, then he flipped it open and started to read Dean's familiar strong scrawl.

He was soon absorbed into his brother's nightmare. Details he'd suspected, others he hadn't; Dean's writing brought it all to sick life. Images Sam wouldn't forget. A new level of respect for his brother when he didn't think that was possible. Nausea pitted in his stomach and sweat pooled in his palms. Understanding.

Dean yelling his name.

Sam looked up, brow creasing as another shouted "Sam!" careened through the parking lot.

He took it in in a glance: Dean barreling across the parking lot toward him, barefoot and hardly limping in his desperation. Sam's name in a voice he barely recognized, and not just because he hadn't heard it in over a week. The snarling coyote lunging at Sam from the other side of the table.

Sam startled back, rolling off the bench, then under it to try to put some barrier between himself and the mad animal.

And then Dean was there and there was a crunch like bones breaking and a pained whimper, and grey fur rolling away.

The coyote rose, shambling and cowering, and backed away from them in fear. A dozen feet away, it turned and ran.

Sam stared after it with rounded eyes, still trying to catch his breath. Supernatural threats he got. It was the mundane ones that were hard to process sometimes. Like a winter-starved wild animal as ready to tear his throat out as any wendigo.

The bench above him was suddenly shifted away, and Dean loomed over him, panting and studying him with fearful eyes. The anxiety fading even as Sam watched, replaced by a wryness he hadn't seen in too long as he held out his good hand to Sam.

Sam grabbed it, let Dean pull him to his feet. Then yank him close, Dean's cast pressing painfully into Sam's back. He didn't care, remembering scrawled lines of his brother's pain and holding on equally tightly. _They_ had only let Dean go because he'd survived for so long, and Sam was never as grateful for that stubbornness.

"Coyote-bait," Dean muttered in his ear, the rusty voice sheer music.

Sam laughed, pressing his face into the dip of Dean's collarbone. "Shut up."

00000

_"Sammy, don't go. Please. Don't go. Please don't go. Please…"_

_The grip on his arm was painful; the rawness of the words was worse. He'd missed the slide from quiet confession to this exhausted, heartbroken begging. _

_He couldn't listen to any more. _

_His jaw worked for a while before vocal cords remembered their job and there was enough spit in his dry mouth to push out the words. _

_"Shut…up." _

_He could almost hear the whiplash. "What? Sammy?"_

_"Shut…up." It was so faint, he could barely hear himself, but he augmented it with a weak pull at Dean's fingers, urging him closer. Waiting until he could feel Dean's breath ghost across his neck before managing one more. "Shut up." _

_The wet sound of Dean's laugh, the hard clasp of his hand and the weight of his forehead against Sam's shoulder, were almost as nice to fade out to as his voice. And this time, Sam knew things would be all right when he returned. _

**The End**


End file.
